


Macrobiotic Stuff

by blagtiwitenois



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blagtiwitenois/pseuds/blagtiwitenois
Summary: Soulless crack for your perverted enjoyment (I'm not very good at comic writing, please bear with me)
Kudos: 2





	Macrobiotic Stuff

It's an absolutely nice day outside, the sun is shining, the tides are willowing across the sands, and of course we have the epitome of summer, which is Nick passed out from heatstroke.

"Fuck!" screeched Roger the moment Nick fainted, collapsing melodramatically with a feminine 'ah' and a flourish of his arm. They didn't even notice that Nick, who was in a sweater, a snow-proof jacket and pants, and another sweater, was beginning to incinerate in his clothing.

"This is why you keep an eye on people with moustaches," David drawled in a dull tone. "I knew one once. The moment I lay my eyes off him, and he would go off and rob the local drugstore of its elderberry syrup-"

"Is that even relevant?" Roger hissed.

"I needed to elaborate for more context," replied David, cross that Roger had interrupted the beginning of his scripted sponsorship monologue for elderberry products.

The drummer, as we see, was rambling something about winter coming (already?) and had put on three thick layers of insulation, plus ski goggles and hardware for the like. His eyes are half-rolled up into his head, face glazed with sweat and red as a raw, plucked chicken marinated in cranberry juice, which was something he was going to attend to after going to the beach.

They got him out of his sweater, snowproof jacket, and stopped at that point because it felt incredibly homosexual to undress the drummer, and they didn't even want to question right now (Roger had too many close calls looking at David). They gave up, and picked him up by his arms and ankles, and a one, two, and accidentally fastballed him miles into the ocean. Their plan B was that Nick, somehow, could float.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't, and sank beneath the waves.

"Fuck." said Roger. "...Now what?". He absentmindedly drank the blood of his enemies in an ice-cool glass.

"Where's Rick, then, if Nick is expendable?" David peered over the distant horizon.

Richard William Wright was watching the seagulls wheeling up in the sky, wailing and barking... along with them. Suddenly, an albatross came around and vored them all. Rick instantaneously grovelled to his new master.

"AH, THE CIRCLE OF LIFE," he screamed into the sand as it got in his mouth and nose, and then screamed again, nose bleeding profusely, because it was like snorting coke, but worse.

He suddenly saw a mirage in the distance, who could that be? He stood up, shaking the sand from his hair, ready to welcome this person to the new religion of Albatross. Even if it just was a mirage. But as he got closer, Rick realized it was his mortal enemy... the author of the classic novel Native Son, Richard Wright.

"You there!" Rick screeched, clenching his fists. Wait a minute, which 'Rick' was it, then? Both get very confused and Wright explodes, leaving Wright spattered in the author's blood. Ah, there we go, some clarification.

"That was easy," says Rick, who has been toppled over by the force of the blast and is laying in the sand.

"There you are," scoffs Roger, who is now standing over him and blocking out the sun, like some unholy demonic apparition. Rick thinks it's kind of hot. David, standing beside Roger, has nothing on this distended-looking horse-man hybrid stretching well past six feet into the air.

"Isth isth epar tw hereweki ss?" Rick asks, and nobody has no idea what he said. Meanwhile, Nick gets washed up on the beach. Immedeately, he writhes around in the wet sand like a worm. Jumping to his feet in an incredible acrobatic act, he runs screaming for his snow jacket and sweater. "I'M COMPROMISED!!!" He yowls, incessantly drying his hair and clothes off. "IT'S COMING, IT'S COMING!"

The others hear this, and turn to look at Nick in some kind of deranged frenzy.

"That's his problem," says Roger.

"DON'T JINX YOURSELF, GEORGE!" screams Nick as he boogies with the towel, wrings out his sweater, puts it over his other sweater, and then his snow jacket.

"What a fucking idiot," the bassist sighs.

And then it gets cold. The temperature drastically drops, and faster than one can blink, it's snowing.

"Uh-" Says David, whose wet hair has turned into dark blonde icicles. That's a rather unappealing colour. Roger looks down at his glass of blood, which is now a frozen cylinder. Thoughtfully licking it with his reptilian tongue, the nonhuman entity braves the cold in a t-shirt and shorts. Meanwhile, the actual _people_ are shivering to death.

"G-God, Rog, what is up with you?" David says, spastically shuddering and sniffling in the snowy sand.

"Thermoregulation," beams Roger with a hideous grin, and David swears he sees his pupils slit or turn red or whatever a nonhuman entity does with its eyes. Nick walks over, a slightly smug look on his face.

"I told you guys," he says, looking down at the two on the ground. He catches the foot of Roger, and quickly brings his eyes up to the invincible thing.

"Uh-"

"-I'm fine," says Roger, still grotesquely smiling.

"...What are you?" Nick asks.

"Don't ask," sighs Roger. "You should've noticed, this isn't cranberry juice."


End file.
